The Man with The Child in His Eyes

His capacity to love always exceeded his ability to praise. You just had to know what he meant. Of all the darts he threw, I never quite figured out what to hurl or what to hold. I kept it all. With gentle eyes that could cut you in half when you weren’t in his good graces. His resilience unmatched, I watched as he buried his own dreams to make mine come true. A proud man and hard man but loving all the same. He remains the one unwavering thing in my world.
Daddy’s new ways are his old ones. He still wakes far too early, still smokes a pack a day and still boasts that I’m the closest thing to a son he ever had. “A good right hook will beat any style of martial arts…but you have to land it first.” And I did.
My father gave me his temperament more than his neatness. He taught me to be sure of myself, to not seek approval. He wanted me to be tough and beautiful all at once. And punctual to a fault.
“Better to be an hour early than one minute late.” I wish I had taken that from him, too. But alas, I am my mother’s child. Or so he says.